Occupation
by the.uk.of.arthur.kirkland
Summary: As the world falls to their knees, two great powers have risen like the empires of old. America and Russia expand their influence throughout their continents. As the war comes to a close, the occupied nations have two options- submit, or be destroyed.
1. Chapter 1

France had fallen under Russian control just a month earlier. Rebellion in Germany and the rest of occupied Europe had been quelled, and France was looking to end up the same way. Britain put up a fierce fight in both the sea and sky, its seperation from the rest of Europe certainly an advantage. But without resources and support from other nations, the people and the soldiers were starving.

Resources were running low- as was manpower. More were lost every day. Ships and aircraft that were destroyed couldn't be replaced fast enough, if at all. Bombs fell on the capital. Nearing the end of August, the Russian forces broke through the naval blockade. The Battle of London had begun.

During the war, Arthur had stayed closely involved with the war effort. His nearly two thousand years of experience was invaluable- and he wasn't just going to hand his fate over to some human.

Day and night, he and his brothers worked with tacticians, generals and the like.

When the Russian forces broke through and began up the Thames, things changed. Evacuation of the city began immediately, but with so many citizens, it was a near impossible task. They were instructed to remain indoors.

Any able-bodied adult, man or woman (so long as there were no children to care for in the household) was immediately conscripted and armed with what little there was to spare. Soldiers from elsewhere were brought it. And Arthur joined on the front lines, his brothers returning to their homelands to fortify themselves.

Enemy troops had docked back downstream, intending to attack the city on all sides to prevent escape. As Russian ships docked, enemy soldiers flooded onto the walkways, heavily armed and well-taken care of. England and his men had no chance, but they fought.

Arthur shot at the Russians as they flooded from their ships, ducking into an alley as they shot back. He could feel every one of his men that died, but he focused and continued to fire. He and the rest of the front line were pushed back.

They tried to dig in and stand their ground, but the enemy was overwhelming. More and more they were pushed back. From behind the enemy lines, screaming and crying could be heard as houses were broken into.

Somewhere nearby there was an explosion. Debris flew, clattering onto the cement. Blood splattered. The sound of gunfire left ringing in his ears. Through the noise, he could hear shouting.

With a glance over his shoulder, he saw an intersection, scores of battling soldiers down every street. "Oh God..." He whispered, ducking into an alley for cover as a shot barely knicked his shoulder.

He panted, blood splattered across his clothes. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself back out into the street to duck behind a cement barrier. He pulled the pin out of a grenade and aimed before tossing it. When it exploded, it took a care with it, erupting into a ball of flame.

Even with that, the enemy got closer, until the only choice was to move into the intersection. With their backs to ally and enemy, the makeshift army attempted to hold its ground. The airforce was caught in a battle overhead, and any backup that may have been provided by navy troops had either been killed or held up in their own battles.

One by one, the British forces were dwindled, with only abandoned vehicles to take cover behind and still being exposed on one side. Arthur had ducked behind a cab, the windows already broken. Every enemy he took down was a short relief.

Suddenly, there was a piercing pain in his leg and it collapsed under him. He cried out, pressing on a bullet wound. His hand was quickly covered in blood. Unable to get back up, he sat with his back to the cab, preparing to fire at the enemy coming in from other roads. But when he pulled the trigger, his gun only clicked at him in response.

It was then that he noticed his numbers. 16 that very quickly became 12, and then 7. A vehicle exploded in a ball of flame, and he heard earsplitting screams. 5. 3. 1.

Him.

It was just him.

The enemy stopped firing.

He heard the whistle and crash of an aircraft going down. The sound of debris falling back to Earth. The crackling of flames. His own shaking breaths. The front line of the enemy had encircled him, standing in uniform position, guns at their sides, the red ensignia on their chests.

They stared at him. They were waiting. He had no extra ammo. No weaponry. Nowhere to run.

Then they parted as a man stepped through their ranks. Tall and stocky, thickly dressed despite the warm weather. He looked at the Englishman with a childish grin, slightly hidden behind a heavy scarf. Arthur slowly pulled himself to his feet, gripping his gun as though it were still loaded. He leaned heavily on the cab for support.

"Drop your weapon, comrade. It is over. There is no more need for fighting." Ivan chimed, unflinching as another aircraft crashed in a ball of flame. Arthur winced. "Bite me." He growled defiantly, holding himself tall and proud despite his condition.

As though controlled by a hive mind, the soldiers in view of him raised their guns and prepared to fire. Arthur held himself taller, gaze locked onto Ivan's, his breath coming out shakily. "Ah... Silly Englishman. You will cooperate soon. For now, though, we can do it your way!" Ivan smiled brightly and gave a vague wave. The gunshots rang in unison.


	2. Chapter 2

"I told you, that window isn't going to break. I'm pretty sure it's bullet proof." The voice of Wales flooded in through the darkness as Arthur slowly came to. Arthur blinked, squinting against the light.

"I don't give a damn what you told me, Owen! We've been in here way too bloody long, I'm not staying another second!" Scotland's voice was raised in frustration, and there was a thump as he rammed his shoulder into the windowpane.

England managed a shaky laugh, pain shooting through his torso, "Idiot... You'll break your bloody shoulder..." He muttered, catching his brothers' attention.

"Look who's finally up! Lazy sod." Northern Ireland chimed in, seated on the edge of the bed.

England groaned as he sat up, finding his torso completely wrapped in bandages. And poorly. "God... Did you lot do this...?" He ran a hand carefully over the stained linen.

Owen gave a small laugh, "Yeah... Patrick stole the stuff, Ali and I patched you up."

Arthur shook his head, "Think you did more damage then the bullets did.." He joked.

"We did a fine job. Least you're not still bleeding." Alistair huffed.

Arthur rolled his eyes before attempting to stand. Patrick jumped up from the bed to help him. "You were out for a few days..." He informed.

Arthur spent a few moments getting used to standing before carefully walking shakily to the window with Patrick's help.

Alistair had quit slamming himself against it.

Arthur gazed out the window, realizing that they were in Buckingham Palace. He frowned. Why were they still here?

Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, and the door was opened. "Privyet!" Came the painfully cheerful Russian, echoing slightly off the walls. "Come with me! I have surprise for you."

Guards stepped into the room, cuffing the occupied nation's hands behind their backs and dragging then from the room, Alistair giving and indignant comment on 'being able to walk on his own'. Ivan lead the way until they stepped out onto a balcony, looking over the courtyard. Several guards stood behind them, and the brothers stepped forward to look down.

After a few moments, a guard stepped out into the courtyard, leading a small line of people to stand in good view of the balcony. It took a moment, as they were dressed in rags and badly bruised, but the realization was simultaneous and heart-stopping.

Before them stood the Royal family, the children crying quietly, as well as the Prime Minister and several prominant families and politicians. They stood in chains, heads down, facing the shocked British Isles.

"What...? What the Hell is happening!?" Wales demanded, turning to scowl at Russia. A guard raised their gun.

"Turn. Watch." Was all Ivan said, and without answers, Owen did as he was told. Several soldiers came out, all armed, one for each prisoners. They stood in front of the line and waited.

An order was shouted in Russian, and the soldiers raised their guns.

"No... No..! They're just children!" Arthur realized first what was happening, voice raising into something of a scream.

Another order called.

The gunshots rang out, echoing.

They watched in horror as the blood spattered and the bodies fell.

Pain burst through their chests, suddenly making it difficult to breathe.

Alistair whipped around to face Ivan, "What the fuck is wrong with you!? You bloody bastard I swear to God if I weren't bound I would kill you!" He yelled, scowling at the smug smile across the Russian's lips.

Owen and Patrick both slowly turned away from the scene. "You son of a bitch..." Patrick growled, fixing Ivan with an icy glare.

Arthur could only stare at the bodies.

The soldiers had gone back in. Blood began to pool around the dead. He couldn't breath. Those he was sworn to protect and serve were gone... But his people weren't.

The Englishman set his jaw, turning to Ivan, eyes glittering with determination.

Alistair was still yelling, but Arthur silence him by stepping in front of the three of them.

"That display was cruel and inhumane- if you think that it accomplished something, it did not. We aren't animals, there is no need to keep us bound." His tone was laced with rage, but he remained diplomatic, "Take us wherever it is you mean to, but be warned. Our people are very attached to our royalty."

Ivan only smiled at him, as though he were pleased with this response. "Come then. We will be going to Moscow, where you can stay with your..." His gaze flicked over the group of them, "Colleagues." He turned and lead the way, guards uncuffing the former UK and taking up the rear.

They boarded a helicopter, making themselves comfortable for the long flight.

There was pain in their chests, and the scene ran through their minds on repeat. But they stayed silent. They stayed still. Their minds worked.

Arthur shed only a few tears, refusing to let himself properly cry. He set his mind on the only thing that mattered.

Liberation.


	3. Chapter 3

Thought had long since been clouded by the return of throbbing pain throughout Arthur's body. He gazed out the window, watching the land pass below them.  
Eventually, he could see their destination.  
Moscow.  
Twisted spires of glass and metal rose from the Earth, brightly lit, casting a glow on the slowly darkening sky. Older buildings remained as well- great stone architecture that heiled to times since past.  
The monorail could be seen, even from where they were, a bright white snake twisting through the maze of buildings, many feet above the crowds of those who hadn't been drafted into the war effort.  
The sight of the great city made his heart ache, already missing the comforts of home and his own beautiful capital, now torn apart by bombs and soldiers.  
As they were escorted from the helicopter and into a slim black vehicle, a sense of dread slowly washed over them, like the slow crawl of a tarantula up one's back.  
They came into view of the grand palace that Ivan had made his home, and gazed at it with horror and awe in equal measure.  
The brightly coloured, intricate brickwork- mostly in red, partly in other colours- was a stark contrast to the sleek metal and black tinted windows of the city around it.  
The brothers were led in through the double doors, carved of dark wood into an unimaginable design. Inside was brightly lit, the high ceiling painted in a heavenly mural, the trim of the ceiling and floor coloured gold.  
Rich red carpet had been laid across the dark wood floors. Across from them was a grand staircase, slightly curved, split in half by a halfway. Heavily armed guards stood at either side of the door and hall. More patrolled the halls.  
From somewhere, there was the beautiful music of a piano.  
"You will stay here. This is home for comrades of Russia." Ivan smiled, standing behind them.  
"We aren't your comrades." Alistair growled. Arthur, silently, agreed. Ivan only laughed, and then said something in Russia to the guards who had come in with him.  
Then the great nation walked up the stairs and disappeared from view.  
The guards, pushing the brother's forward with their guns, forced them down the hall. The sound of the piano grew louder.  
Down the hall, they could see someone guarding a door.  
It was a familiar figure, standing tall and formal, blond hair slicked back. He was thinner than he used to be, but not by much, still tall and heavily muscular. He held a gun at his side.  
"Germany..." Patrick muttered aloud, eyes narrowing to a glare. Arthur felt anger rise in his chest as they got closer. He noticed something on the back of Ludwig's hand- the Russian insignia, burned into the flesh. The wound had healed over, but the scar was red and prominent.  
They stopped outside the door. Ludwig glanced at them once before quickly locking onto the guards, refusing to look at them again. A brief word was exchanged in native languages. Ludwig unlocked and opened the door.  
The sound of the piano poured out into the hall, and the brothers were pushed into the room, the door slamming shut behind them.  
The music stopped for only a brief moment.  
"Mon Dieu, Angleterre!" The familiar French voice rang out as the Frenchman ran over, wrapping Arthur in a tight hug. Arthur yelped in pain and Francis let go, "Oh! I'm so sorry!"  
Francis looked at Alistair and smiled, hugging him as well. "Are you all alright? We heard what happened," He motioned to the TV hanging over an unlit fireplace on the one wall, playing the news, several nations sitting around watching it. "We're so sorry..."  
Arthur nodded, "We're alright, for the most part. Could be better." He took a look around the room.  
Austria was at the piano, Hungary at the side. The music was sorrowful. Switzerland sat at a table nearby, staring at the wall, unarmed and looking... Lost. His eyes, usually fiery and alert, were glazed over.  
The Baltics sat together in front of the TV, Poland close to Lithuania, clinging onto his arm. Finland, Denmark and Norway also sat together at the TV, in a seperate group, sitting around a table so they could talk. Even Denmark was quiet and somber, though Finland tried to cheer them up the best he could despite his own grief.  
Belgium and the Netherlands were on the other side of the room. Romania and Bulgaria, both quiet, no doubt grieving as well.  
Greece and Turkey sat together at a chess table. Greece was sleeping, and Turkey was trying to balance chess pieces up on his hand.  
Serbia sat alone.  
Italy had been talking to France, and got up and came over as well.  
Belarus and Ukraine were no doubt with their brother.  
Each nation had the same brand on the back of their hand.  
Any European nation present probably wasn't alive anymore, or, in the case of Spain and Portugal, had yet to be taken over.  
They were quiet. Desolate. Exhausted and hopeless.  
Alistair and Francis had started talking as Arthur returned his attention to them.  
"Ciao! I'm sorry you're here." Feliciano was trying very hard to be cheerful, giving them a smile. His eyes were red from crying. Francis wrapped an arm around him.  
"It's alright. We won't be here for long." Alistair assured. Arthur felt bad for the poor Italian. He still had his brothers. Italy didn't.  
"Don't let the wrong person hear you say that." Francis warned.  
"Si... C-Come on! Lets go sit." Feliciano quickly led the way to one of the tables, the others following behind. They sat around it, leaning in and naturally dropping their voices to almost-whispers.  
"Why the Hell is Germany guarding you all!? Shouldn't he be helping you get out?" Arthur asked, glancing at the closed door. Feliciano sighed quietly, looking down at the table.  
Francis quickly answered for him, "He is close to Russia now. Russia trusts him. We don't know why... He was already like this by the time I got here. I asked some others, but not a lot of them would talk to me." He frowned, glancing at the other nations, "Prussia was killed..." Francis trailed off, looking down as well.  
Oh right, Francis and Gilbert had been friends, Arthur thought. But there was something more, in the way his long-time enemy and short-time ally sat. "Francis...?" He questioned, catching the Frenchman's attention again.  
Francis looked up at them, teary-eyed.  
Alistair frowned, "Oi. What's wrong?"  
Francis looked away, trying not to cry, "Monaco and Seychelles..." It was all he could get out, but they understood immediately.  
England stood, hands slamming down onto the table, "What!?" That got the brief attention of most of the other nations, the music stopping for a brief moment.  
"Arthur, sit down." Wales hissed, pulling the Englishman back down into his seat. Scotland had gotten up and wrapped his arms around France comfortingly. For a moment, Arthur was jealous, but he was mostly furious at Russia.  
"When did this happen!? I swear to God I'll-" Northern Ireland put a hand on his shoulder to silence him, and the Englishman took a deep breath.  
"Don't do anything, Arthur..." Francis looked over at him, reluctantly letting go of Alistair. He pulled up his sleeve and held out his wrist, showing a small 'x' burned into his skin.  
Arthur and Alistair both tensed up, furious and trying to control it.  
"Did Ivan do that?" Alistair hissed slightly, looking it over. Francis nodded slightly and Alistair had to sut down again, or he was going to burst out and find that damn Russia.  
"He does it if you disobey him..."  
Arthur took another look around the room, focusing. Switzerland had one on his neck, a few poking out of his sleeve. Denmark, Serbia, Lithuania, Norway, Sweden, Finland, Romania, Greece, Turkey and the Netherlands all had them as well, not all so visible.  
"That's..." Arthur started, boiling with rage.  
"That's fucking bullshit! How could he do that!?" Alistair finished for him, perhaps not as Arthur would've put it, but good enough.  
"Lower your voice..." Italy squeaked quietly, glancing nervously at the door.  
"No! I'm not gonna bloody sit-" At that moment, the door opened, and suddenly everyone went silent, holding their breathe. Ivan had stepped into the room.  
"Privyet!" He chimed, smiling brightly. His sisters hung behind him, Ukraine keeping her head down but Belarus standing tall, right at her brother's side.  
Arthur and Alistair both went to stand, give the Russian a piece of their mind, but their brothers pulled them back down into their seats.  
Ivan's gaze ran over the gathered nations. None met his eyes, save for the defiant UK who glowered at him. Ivan smiled at them.  
"Come with me, you four. We will do the talking." He motioned for them to follow before turning and stepping out of the room.  
The brothers' glanced at eachother, hesitating before getting up. Francis watched them, as they went toward the door, holding themself tall. The piano started again as they stepped out of the room, Hungary's voice singing softly along.  
They were led up one of the staircases and down the hall, stopping outside of another set of double doors. A pair of guards pulled open the doors, revealing a large study. An intricate carpet covered the floors, the walls lined in bookshelves and paintings. There was a fireplace at one side, a small table in front of it, a metal pole on it with one end in the flame.  
Russia motioned to the chairs in front of his desk for them to take a seat, sitting behind his desk and smiling at them coldly.  
The brothers all sat, leaning back and watching him with caution.  
"It is good to have you here," Russia started with a friendly sort of tone, as though they were visiting and not forced here against their will. "There are just a few things to do. Will be over quickly." He gave a look to the guards standing on either side of the doors. It took a moment to recognize them as Germany and Sweden. The two strode over, grabbing England and Scotland and yanking them to their feet.  
"Oi! Watch it!" Alistair objected. Arthur just scowled and muttered under his breath. The two were brought over to the table, their hands forced, palm-down against the wood. They quickly realized what was happening.  
"No! Don't you bloody dare! We are not your property!" Arthur tried to pull away as Ivan sauntered over, but Germany held him down with his hand against the table.  
"It will hurt less if you don't struggle." The German muttered in his ear, one arm tight around the Englishman's waist. Russia pulled the metal skewer from the flames, one end red hot and shaped in the Russian insignia.  
Scotland grit his teeth as the metal was pressed to the sensitive skin on the back of his hand. His free hand gripped the table, and he cursed loudly.  
England continued to try and struggle as the metal was placed back in the fire for a few moments. He glanced back at the two brothers still seated, who watched with wide-eyes, unable to move due to the gun held to their heads by an ever-loyal Belarus.  
The metal was pressed to his hand. Searing pain raced up his arm, taking their air from his lungs as he cried out. He cursed and swore, slamming his free hand down on the table.  
It burned, even after the branding iron was removed, the smell of a burnt flesh hanging faintly in the air. Germany and Sweden both let go.  
"That is all. These two will bring you where you can get bandages. Then you will go to dinner." Ivan said dismissively, placing the iron back in the hearth before taking his seat behind his desk. Belarus lowered her gun and came to stand beside him.  
Wales and North both stood, quickly going over to their brothers who were silenced by the burning pain as they were herded out of the room.


End file.
